


shortcuts

by moonvalentine



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Future Fic, M/M, jjseung, some sexual content, why do i feel like enemies to lovers is going to be their most used tag lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 09:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8839225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonvalentine/pseuds/moonvalentine
Summary: A year later, back in Moscow.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. i like to think i know a lot about ice skating, but i still don’t know how the qualifications for the olympics work. i’ll assume that poor seung-gil didn’t make it based on his coach’s comments in the show/his subsequent placing after the fp. also i wrote this before ep11 so i have no idea how jj's gonna do, but i'm taking my chances. if a technical detail’s not correct, forgive me lmao, or lemme know n i’ll fix it  
> 2\. seung-gil and his coach/family speak to each other in korean; it’s english with everyone else. i do my best to make that clear throughout but jsyk  
> 3\. this ship is taking over my entire life and so is this show bye

There were three distinct things Lee Seung-gil hated about competition season.

The first was the traveling itself. His body was strong, the muscles thoroughly trained and well-developed, but he’d always been sensitive to the little things: differences in sea level and air pressure, time changes, unfamiliar mattresses being too hard or soft on his back.

These were things that made sleep elude him; made the atmosphere in each city feel distant, yet somehow thick and looming all at once. His digestion always reacted poorly even to a two-hour lag in Korea’s time, leaving him a bit queasy and forever feeling uncomfortably full despite an empty stomach. Being thrown even slightly off-balance was never a welcome symptom: it was enough to corrupt his rotations during practice or distract him out of a decent presentation. 

The second was the interviewing. It was such a repetitive practice, really, and he wasn’t charismatic enough to dazzle people with his unenthused answers. He didn’t _want_ to be that way, anyway. There was something to be said for keeping his words to a minimum and holding his own—even if that something wasn’t exactly the nicest feedback he’d ever heard.

Fans weren’t important to him on a basic level, either. In fact, he found them rather troublesome, easy as they were to tune out during programs. And he never felt like goofing off or being friendly with the other competitors—what would be the point? What did he gain by spending his time out and wasting energy instead of getting much-needed rest? What did he gain by bonding with the people he was aiming to defeat?

Nothing. There was no point. There was no gain. Or at least there wasn’t outside the rink.

Overall, it was simply the _interacting_ with people that he wasn’t quite keen on. Seung-gil simply wasn’t made to be social, not on a professional level or a personal one. He was honestly and truly fine with that. It would just be a whole lot more convenient if everyone else were too. 

And then there was the third thing, the one which was perhaps the most distinctly hated of them all. The thing he had come to dread every year now, hoping he could avoid what he knew he had no real chance of avoiding: Jean-Jacques Leroy. 

In all his ostentatious glory, he not only amplified the first two issues to an unsettling degree, but he was his own problem all at once—one that Seung-gil still had no idea how to conquer.

This year, though, he would find a way.

 

.

 

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here.”

Seung-gil didn’t have to look up to know who was speaking. Instead he restrained a sigh and stared into his bowl of kasha, some wildly unappealing grain concoction that was the only thing he could currently stomach.

JJ took the seat across from him, the nauseatingly bright red of his jacket reflecting off the table’s glazed surface. It was only the first day of prep before the Rostelecom Cup and already this was happening. _Already_ he was getting annoyed. Why his coach had insisted on booking the same hotel as everyone else, he’d never understand—it wasn’t even worth the publicity.

He said nothing, only took a sip of coffee. The mug clinked when he set it back down, a gentle sound in the warm, semi-quiet morning of the breakfast lobby. Maybe JJ would leave if he pretended not to notice him.

_As if that’s ever worked._

“You get here late last night?” JJ’s fingers tapped against the tabletop. _One…two-three, one…two-three._ “Is that why you look like death?”

 _Why is that any of your business?_ he didn’t say. It was too early to translate his own thoughts, too early to think. Too early to deal with this. 

“Okay, okay. I won’t ask. I forgot how cranky you are before seven in the morning.” JJ sighed a great sigh, theatrical and no doubt full of shit. “It sure has been a while, hasn’t it, Seung-gil?” 

Nothing. He said nothing. It had been a whole year since they’d seen each other. And yet he still wasn’t ready for this—wasn’t ready for whatever came after this stupid, stilted moment of meeting again. He let a charged silence sit between them, crackling faintly at its edges. 

“What, did you forget how to speak English or something?” 

That was it. He stood up so quickly that his spoon clattered in his bowl. This seemed to surprise JJ, whose eyes he finally decided to meet. He looked unfairly healthy for someone who was supposed to be jet-lagged and miserable as the rest of them: his skin was tan and clear, eyes crystal and focused, hair pomaded exactly how he always styled it. And on top of that, he looked unfathomably amused. 

Seung-gil knew he shouldn’t have reacted. It was nearly as childish to do so as the way he was being treated. But there were some things that just really, _really_ pissed him off. Insulting his intelligence, especially when it came to language, was one of them—he’d gotten enough of that during his earlier years with the press. 

“Don’t speak to me again,” he said in calm, perfectly enunciated English, stare unwavering. “Goodbye.” 

He walked away without giving any time for a response, leaving his food barely-eaten at the table. It wasn’t until he was by the door that JJ called something out to him—but at that point, he wasn’t even listening. He wished he hadn’t been from the beginning.

 

.

 

Practice that day was not the best he’d ever had. 

His coach had managed to book them an hour of private use for the local rink, which was decent considering the demand it was surely under, but an hour passed by all too quickly for an athlete. It really only gave him enough time to practice his triples and go over the finer points of his step sequence before other skaters would filter in and he would leave. But the ice here was too wet, which almost led him to break his elbow twenty minutes in, and he kept accidentally over-rotating on his toe loops. He attributed it to a lack of sleep and poor upkeep of the facility—nothing else.

By the end of the hour, he was sore and quite frustrated, clothes damp enough to make him shiver. His coach was waiting for him at the sidelines with his bag and coat, a towel, and a stern expression. 

“We’ll have to wait until tomorrow to keep practicing,” she told him. “In the meantime, watch the tape and see what you did wrong—” 

“I know what I did wrong,” he replied with the usual polite and humble words, though his tone spoke otherwise. She frowned. It was unattractive on her, deepening the lines which framed her mouth. Even her several rounds of plastic surgery couldn’t hide her displeasure. 

“Watch the tapes, Seung-gil. And make sure you get in time at the gym and stretch before and after dinner.” 

“I will,” he said. As if this were the first time they’d been over this. This was what they did no matter where they went: practice, return to the hotel, watch the video of his practice, work out, stretch, eat, stretch, sleep. Coach would stay in the room on her laptop all the while, wearing reading glasses while she caught up on the news and spoke to his publicist. It was no secret that they were the most boring pair out of all his competitors and their coaches, but he preferred that to having his privacy invaded by the press at every possible turn. And besides, their routine was relatively effective—he’d managed to get this far toward the Grand Prix again this year. 

He changed into shoes once he was off the ice before they headed toward the exit. As always, Seung-gil was hoping to make an unnoticed escape to where his driver was parked outside—and as always, his wish not only was not granted, but was spited completely. 

In the door walked JJ and the Leroy entourage, complete with both of his coaches, several professional photographers carrying lighting equipment, two assistants, a few miscellaneous people looking wide-eyed and thrilled, and some tall, beautiful arm candy in fur coats as huge as his ego. Seung-gil couldn’t have made it up if he’d tried. 

“Ah!” JJ shouted with a flashy grin, looking directly at him. “What a coincidence this is! We’re not interrupting you, are we?” 

“No,” Coach replied, her voice monotone as it always was when she used English, like she was trying not to sound too polite. “Just leaving.” 

“Nice.” Then JJ turned his way, chin tilted up and toward him ever so slightly. “I hope you got in enough time for practice. It’s mine for the rest of the day if you want to come back and finish.” The twinkling, arrogant stare fell on the reddened part of his arm—the part that was sure to bruise after how hard he’d slipped earlier. “Seems like you might need a little brushing up on the basics.” 

The way his mouth curved into a smirk and dimpled his cheek told Seung-gil that this wasn’t quite the friendly competition it was parading as. Especially when his two female cohorts snickered for his benefit, one rubbing the sleeve of his sports jacket with deliberate tenderness and a manicured hand. And when was it ever friendly? It was enough to make one gag. If he hadn’t been using this tactic since he’d started in the senior leagues, and likely before that, then Seung-gil might have had the mind to be embarrassed about it. 

He just stared at JJ without a word, holding onto the belief that his face would hold the sentiment _I told you not to speak to me._ Ten wordless seconds passed where nobody said anything, the silence as awkward and chilly as the room—and then Coach was grabbing him by his bruising arm, sending a half-assed wave at everyone as the two of them made their way out. 

“Wow,” he heard JJ sing around an affected chuckle. “They’ll let just anyone in here these days, hnn?” 

A few people laughed, and at least one chided him with no real weight behind it. Seung-gil pushed the exit doors open with a hard clack, immediately facing the freezing, blustery cold that had filtered through the front entryway. It hit his face in slices, clinging to the sweat along his heavy, furrowed brow. 

He missed Seoul right then, its full, humid cold and the familiar scent of roasting chestnuts in the street markets, melted cinnamon sugar from the hotteok stands and the taste of silken tofu jjigae at the restaurant near his father’s house. He missed his bed and his dog and his heated floors. Today, he just wanted to be home. But he couldn’t be, unfortunately, so he got in the car waiting for him and moved on. 

As they pulled away from the curb, though, Seung-gil made one silent prayer: that that stupid asshole would slip and fall even half as hard as he had, and let the ice knock off even an ounce of his haughtiness when he did.

 

.

 

Like most other things in life, Seung-gil approached exercising rather pragmatically.

He chose simple cardio as his preferred workout. Not only did it build his stamina, which he placed more importance on than strength or flexibility, but it helped to keep his entire body in shape. Of course, he _was_ blessed with a fine metabolism and maintained a healthy diet—but it was running that kept his slim body line intact more than anything, that made his costumes look exactly as aesthetically pleasing as he wanted them to. Everything was for the benefit of his routines. 

Back in Seoul, he had a gym in his home—small, sure, but complete with a treadmill and elliptical, as well as a half-bar for stretching and doing the ballet exercises he’d learned before his debut. He enjoyed listening to audiobooks during the time he ran. Occasionally, and depending on what kind of day it was, he would watch the news on the television his mother had gotten hooked up to the wall, but he hardly ever liked watching TV. Their house had large floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city below, all the streets settled between the tall curves of green mountains with Namsan Tower twinkling in the distance at night, sitting high above the golden, illuminated glow of the Han River and the cars passing over its bridges. That alone was usually enough to entertain him through the hour. Today, however, he found himself unable to fully listen to the book he’d been following for over a week now; the small TV on his treadmill in the hotel gym was full of only Russian channels, and he couldn’t find the patience to try and work the remote for subtitles. 

In short, he felt restless.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the _tap-tap-tap_ of his steps, the way his feet beat a quick rhythm against the belt of the machine. It was moving so fast that the logos printed on it blurred into a thick white line on either side of his legs. If he thought hard enough, he could imagine being on the street just outside his favorite park, the one that lead up and up toward the top of a smaller mountain. The park where couples hiked up to sit and drink beer and eat takeout fried chicken together; where older people walked and talked with their friends or used the squeaking workout machines to loosen up their joints. It was quiet and beautiful there, the sun hitting the trees just perfectly every day he chose to run the trail, and so much better than here—here, back in Russia once again, where everything was so foreign and icy and reminded him of the things he didn’t like. The things he did not and would not— _could_ not—let himself have. 

The vision faded, and his mind started wandering into dangerous territory. Immediately the heel of his palm slammed against the _stop_ button on the treadmill.

 _No,_ he thought, feet on the plastic sides of the machine. His pulse radiated in the backs of his knees. The belt lost speed, slowing and slowing until it moved and lagged at the speed of cold honey, and then stopped moving altogether. 

Breath left him in hard, panting exhales, ones that required effort to get through his tightening chest. The timer on the control panel read thirty-three minutes and eighteen seconds. He’d have to come back and finish the other twenty-seven minutes later.

 _No,_ he thought again, head still thick. _You’re not doing this._

Barely cognizant of the trip upstairs to the suite he shared with his coach, Seung-gil went straight to his room without greeting her upon entry or removing his headphones, only managing to take off his shoes at the entryway out of sheer habit. He closed the door, stripped off his workout jacket and shirt, his socks and knee braces from beneath his pants, and leaned against the wall to stretch. To _breathe—_ and do so properly. 

The muscles in his back pulled and loosened as he bent at the waist, let his lungs expand his chest, let his hair brush the soft, plush carpet of his bedroom.

In two days, he would skate his short program. In three days he’d skate his free. And then the season would continue, or if he didn’t qualify it’d come to a halt in its tracks. 

 _Stretch._ The word filled his mind as he took note of each cord of his muscles move, plucking and humming like strings on a violin. _Stretch. Stretch. Focus._  

He couldn’t let it end here. Not after last time—and definitely not like this. So he touched his forearms to the floor, leaned into them, and kept his focus on the work.

It wouldn’t end here. Not if he had any say in it, anyway.

 

.

 

The rest of the afternoon went like clockwork. He cooled off, he ate what he could get down, he analyzed his practice videos, he had professional and stunted conversation with his coach over possible contract renewals, and he finished doing so with thirty minutes to spare for another workout before dinner. By the time he zipped his running clothes on again, though, he felt like he was about to jump out of his skin. 

There was a prickling feeling he had as he took the elevator to the second floor, as his muffled footsteps sounded in the silent hallway, as he stepped into the nearly-empty gym and back onto the same treadmill. But he ignored it. It was just this strange buzz of restlessness talking. Dread always had a not-so-funny way of making itself known. 

He quickly matched his earlier pace, as if uninterrupted entirely; the watch on his wrist alerted him once he’d hit his target heart rate. Two minutes and thirty-one seconds in and he was doing just fine. Nothing was out of place. 

Seung-gil had been like this his entire life: always aware of the numbers in things, always looking for quantifiers, measuring whatever came to his attention. Putting everything in its right and normal place. Even before he’d been thrown into ice skating he’d seen the world so technically—he liked compartmentalizing and fitting pegs into the carvings they were designed for. Some things were just out of his control, which he thought he accepted rather gracefully. But of course, there was always a glaring exception: his nerves. And they’d been throwing him off balance in a small but growing way during these competitive seasons, amplifying every year he was faced with them, and he _despised_ it. 

There was suddenly a noise loud enough to penetrate past his headphones. His eyes instantly went down the line of machines to his right. 

Two women were chatting, cackling loudly as they walked side-by-side. Their pace was the same; they both wore ponytails high on their heads and were clearly comfortable with each other, talking and laughing freely like they weren’t in a public place or supposed to be even mildly winded. They were likely models, he thought, or perhaps figure skaters in the rankings this year. He couldn’t quite tell—and honestly, he didn’t really care. Just then, however, one of them lifted her hand with a flouncy gesticulation, revealing amethyst-colored nail polish he somehow—strangely— _unfortunately_ —recognized.

They were the girls who’d accompanied JJ to the rink that morning. Which meant that JJ was either currently in the hotel or was on his way back. 

_Wonderful._

A slight panic gripped Seung-gil somewhere between the ribs. Much harder than he would’ve figured it would, in fact. But he persevered, turning his head back toward the windows before him, staring blankly at the small plaza a few stories below. Despite the frequent passage of cars, the area was strangely empty of people. Nothing at all to see. 

He switched from his mystery audiobook to music, turning on whatever song was first and clicking up the volume as much as he could tolerate. He could’ve simply been being dramatic. But it was always better safe than sorry, so his eyes focused hard on the way the room reflected off the glass, making sure no one was coming that he hadn’t been expecting.

When the women finally left twenty-four minutes into his run he breathed a bit easier. Their departure was more than welcome. The longer they’d lingered, the more he was aware of them—every exaggerated laugh, every bounce of their abundant hair, the way their visibly expensive clothes clung to them with feminine luxury. For a solid moment it was like they’d taken his nerves with them—but then he realized he was alone in the room. The singular person making use of this enormous, abundantly equipped room in a hotel full of athletes. 

 _Three minutes left._ He quickened his pace and upped the incline. He could feel his eardrums protesting the noise they weren’t used to. 

 _Two minutes._ No one had entered the gym again, which was either a good thing or a simple validation of his edginess. His shirt stuck to his chest beneath his jacket, clinging to the skin at his sternum, sweat pooling there from where it rolled past his neck. He’d barely managed to wet his shirt during his earlier run. 

 _One._ His eyes darted along the length of the glass, catching on the unclear shapes of objects and consequently making his stomach drop. _There’s not another soul in here,_ he had to tell himself. _And even if there were, they wouldn’t bother you._  

 _Except for one, of course._  

He’d never been more glad to see the timer hit twenty-seven, as yellow-green and seeming as the numbers were. His feet were on the floor before the belt had even begun to slow. 

His heartbeat thumped hard in his chest, his neck, his ears against the music as he headed to the elevators in the hallway. He _was_ being dramatic. Probably. But that didn’t change the ease he felt when he noticed the crowd of people there, all waiting for a lift to their floor from the restaurant on the second story. 

Seung-gil stood in the back of them, muscles buzzing from a lack of proper cool-down. It looked to be a female skater, one he vaguely recognized, with who he assumed was family standing around her; all of them had dark, rich skin and hair, and genuine smiles, and they were in high spirits as they spoke to and around the girl.

His own family had never come to his competitions—not internationally, at least. Both his mother and his father had attended his first round of domestics in Korea. After he’d made it to the internationals like they’d all planned, though, they stopped coming—his father because of financial strain; his mother because of whatever obligations she had to her new social life. He didn’t resent them for that, not even when he made it into the Grand Prix preliminaries. It would have made his failure the first time that much worse.

His foot tapped against the red and gold patterns in the hotel carpet, just off the beat of the song still blaring in his ears. These people wouldn’t all fit in the same elevator. He’d have to wait for another one. It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes, which was fine. Some of the antsy feeling he’d been experiencing had quelled already. As much as he didn’t want to admit it to himself, it probably had a lot to do with—

The earbud in his left ear moved out of the blue. He froze. 

“What—” he began, defaulting to his native tongue. After a handful of tense seconds his head whipped around—someone had taken the headphone out of his ear, holding the thing between two of their fingers. 

“What’re you listening to?”

The words and the breath around them were warm against his neck, yet cool on the sweat trickling down from his hair. And they were close, hovering at his ear, low and smooth in a way he should have expected. 

“Leave me alone,” he said plainly, in English now. His voice sounded quieter than he would have liked but it came out all the same. The muscles in his neck pulled when he attempted a recoil; the headphone cord pulled taut at his chin, digging into the flesh. 

“This sounds horrible,” JJ half-laughed, nothing short of condescending. “And it’s too loud, especially for some crappy indie music. Did you get distracted during your workout again?” 

 _Again?_ he wondered, stomach souring with anxiety. The bruise on his arm throbbed with pain as if to answer the taunt. 

“You know, you could benefit from some _real_ music.” A small movement, and then JJ was leaning a bit over his shoulder, tucking the stray earbud into the top of his collar. One of those fingertips just barely brushed the base of his throat, _barely,_ but it was enough to stir something deep and fast and lightning-hot in his chest. _“My_ songs—” 

“I have no interest in your failed attempts at being a musician.” 

JJ brought an arm up to rest on his other shoulder. Seung-gil couldn’t move. Not without bringing attention to himself amongst this budding crowd or looking like an idiot. Or, worse, without JJ finding some more familiar way to touch him that was more than just a warm, heavy arm resting a few inches away from his neck. 

“Oh?” he preened, pulling him a bit closer. “And you’d know all about failure, wouldn’t you?”

Seung-gil just stood there, anger flaring in his already-heating veins, coursing faster than whatever else had started to stir in his blood. _Elbow him. Do it. His stomach is right there. It would feel so good just to make him hurt._ But the elevator dinged, announcing its arrival—a saving grace. 

He took that as his cue to walk out of JJ’s casual half-embrace, spine fizzing strangely as he pushed past the small crowd with restrained steps. He nearly ran into the last exiting person on their way out. And finally, he pressed himself into the very corner, leaning his side against the mirrored surface of the wall and not daring to look at himself. He knew the pathetic half-grimace that was threatening to pull at his mouth, the irritated and flustered flush so high on his cheeks that it seeped into the skin around his eyes. 

The skater and her family all filed in, filling the space with noise and chatter as they increasingly lent to the feel of sardines being packed into a tin. They were effectively confining Seung-gil to his place in the back. Hidden. Safe. Everything like he’d intended all along. Everything in its right place. 

And then, just as the golden doors were sliding shut: “Hey, hey, what’s the rush? I’m sure you can fit one more.”

He chewed the inside of his lip and tried to keep his wits. There was no reason to say anything—not when most of the other people on the elevator didn’t look to keen on letting someone else join. But the girl in the middle of _course_ recognized who it was. 

“Ah, JJ!” She pointed a frantic, waving finger toward the button panel. “Mama, hold the door! Let him on!” 

And let him on they did. 

JJ smiled with an eyebrow raised, expertly navigating his way through the gaps between everyone, and winked at the starry-eyed girl on his way past. Somehow—intentionally, surely—he ended up in the back of the elevator, squeezing Seung-gil even further into the corner. He could smell that ridiculous cologne JJ used, a suffocating cloud of woody and smoky and heady creeping into his sinuses. 

“I didn’t know you were here already!” the girl said excitedly, brushing long hair behind her ears. Seung-gil felt kind of sick both from watching her innocent display of affection and from an onset of claustrophobia settling in. He looked away from her, from the curious glances of her family or friends or whoever they were as they stared between her and the one beside him. 

“A _true_ champion always gives himself ample time to warm up,” JJ replied in that superior way of his, speaking with a light, almost joking sort of bemusement. “Besides, I thought it might be a good chance to see some old friends. Between promotions and championships, it’s always so _hard_ to make visits and catch up, don’t you think?” 

 _Awful,_ Seung-gil thought. The man couldn’t go one sentence without bragging. 

The girl giggled anyway. _Poor, disillusioned thing._ It was a shame how easily they fell for whatever he tried to pass off as charm. How dazzled they were by his ego. And how infrequently they seemed to realize that all he ever did was talk about himself. It really was a shame, Seung-gil thought to himself once more, eyes on the back of the older woman’s head in front of him. 

But then he felt the hand on the back of his leg, and he stopped thinking entirely. His whole body went ramrod stiff. 

“Oh, great!” the girl cheered. “Yeah, I haven’t seen most of my international friends here since…” She trailed off, trying to recall finer details, but he didn’t follow the rest of her words. Her voice suddenly sounded like she was a mile away. 

JJ’s hand—because who else’s would it be—was large enough to span the whole backside of his leg. It moved slowly, silently over the sleek fabric of his workout pants, fingers curling toward the space between his legs. They stroked the inner seam at his thigh, back and forth for a small moment, with enough pressure to make his jaw lock. He couldn’t move—not away from it, given the unbelievably limited room in here, and not to stop it either. 

He felt the palm run further upward, slipping over the rather unimpressive curve of his ass. His breath stuttered in his chest, especially when he felt the fingers press somewhere in-between and underneath. His hands were sweating where they sat dormant and entirely relenting in his jacket pockets. 

JJ laughed, continued on in his inane conversation as if nothing was happening, like he wasn’t groping Seung-gil with a firm and sure grip where hopefully— _prayerfully—_ no one could see. The hand traveled upward, tracing the waistband of his pants with slow deliberation, and then dragged up beneath the hem of his shirt and jacket.

Seung-gil held his breath only so he wouldn’t hiss. 

The skin-to-skin contact was slight, but it was searing. That was the only way he could manage to describe it. Each touch to his lower back was hot, almost too hot, though he couldn’t tell if it was from his own skin or JJ’s. He steeled his expression into nothingness as best he could, even as JJ’s thumb pressed into one of the dimples there. It was all so much at once. Sensitizing. Disconcertingly electric. Gentle, but present. When the digit teased at the band of his pants, skimming along it with a practiced and calculated touch, he felt so hot beneath his collar that he couldn’t breathe. 

It was nothing, not enough, and far too much at once. He felt like he was shrinking, getting wrung out, even, and none of these people bothered to notice. They just talked and laughed and stood there getting bigger and crowding him more with every passing second. His headphone was still playing music in his right ear, too loud, tinny, bordering on head-achingly painful. He thought he was going to lose his mind right then and there. Once and for all.

And then the elevator dinged, signaling their arrival at the first of three stops. 

Every single person but the two of them pushed out, waving their goodbyes at JJ and hardly noticing Seung-gil’s existence. It was a blessing, really, given how obvious he felt with another man’s hand on his ass and what felt like steam rising off his skin. No one else should see this or know about it—at least not before he was able to form a proper reaction and walk away from it and—and come to his _fucking_ _senses._  

The hallway was empty when the doors began to close. He finally let himself breathe again, drawing in a shaking breath. He still couldn’t move. Not only because he was just…incapacitated, but because he didn’t want JJ to know what this was doing to him. Or that it was doing anything to him in the first place. But they were alone then—and the exact second the elevator enclosed them again, he realized that there wasn’t much of a choice of escape.

“Ah, would you look at that.” The hand on his back moved to grab his hip, pushing him against the wall. JJ’s other hand landed beside his head. “I guess it’s just the two of us now, hmm?” 

Seung-gil was effectively trapped. 

Against his better judgment, he glanced up at JJ, finding his smirk just as presumptuous and dismaying as ever. His eyes were slate blue, darker in the warm light of the elevator, but alight with something mischievous—something bad, surely, if the hand snaking around to palm Seung-gil’s lap was any indication. 

“I don’t want anything to do with you,” Seung-gil mumbled, looking straight up at him. 

JJ didn’t miss a beat. “That’s too bad.” His voice was patronizing, infuriatingly so, as his hand pressed directly over what he’d been looking for. “I haven’t even gotten started yet.” 

Seung-gil felt the way his blood was pumping hot and quick, thumping hard; he felt how it all seemed to go directly downward, like JJ could pull it out of him by sheer proximity and leave him with absolutely nothing. His hand was right there, _right_ there, _right_ on him, and he could easily roll his hips into it and get the friction he was starting to need. But his thoughts were blaring at him, screaming like alarms: _No. No. No. There are cameras here. And besides, you can’t let him. You can’t. You can’t let anyone._

“Off.” His own hands became useful again, pushing JJ by the chest. Up and away. “Get away from me.” 

“Why, Seung-gil? You seem pretty interested to me.” 

He deserved something for not letting out a mangled gasp of a moan when JJ clutched him and squeezed. Hard. And he deserved even more when he pushed him with fuller force, enough to make him stumble back. 

“Find someone else to harass.” They arrived at his floor. _Thank God._ He moved toward the doors. “See you at the arena.”

He stepped into the hallway—blessedly spacious and cool and clean—and didn’t dare to look back. Not even when he heard JJ laugh with his mouth closed.

“If you even make it that far.”

The best Seung-gil could do in return was a middle finger over his head as he made his way toward his room. The resounding cackle let him know he’d been seen. He didn’t put it down until he heard the muted sound of the doors close shut. 

He couldn’t make anything out of what had just transpired—because if he let himself, he would be in a hell of a lot of trouble. For now, he was just glad no one had seen them. No one knew about it. And no one had to.

If his hands shook while he attempted to slip his key card into the lock, that too was to no one’s knowledge but his. And if he went straight to the shower before his coach could see the state he was in, that was also his business, and his alone.

 

.

 

It had all started at the Rostelecom Cup the previous year—Seung-gil’s first major introduction to the Grand Prix Final preliminaries. He’d done well in other world competitions before, but this was the biggest season he’d had yet. The most important, too, because not only did it determine whether he made it to the finals, but also whether he would make it to the Olympics the following year. And those wouldn’t be just any Winter Olympics, either—they’d take place in Korea, where he was expected to excel just as much as his fellow countrymen and women had, if not more.

He hadn’t qualified for any of it. Which had hurt. A lot. Even more so when their flight back home was delayed until the early hours of the following morning. Not only could he not escape the fanfare and celebration he couldn’t be a part of, but he also didn’t have enough time to properly sleep it off. So he did something he rarely ever did: he went out. 

At first, he wasn’t sure if he’d decided to go because Coach had insisted on using it as a chance for good publicity, meeting up with other skaters while they were still here, both victorious and not; it was probably because he’d simply needed a drink and a distraction, which were two things he rarely got. 

He ended up at a bar somewhere in walking distance to the hotel, which, coincidentally, was large enough to hold a party for at least one of the skaters celebrating a top four placement today. Seung-gil’s first assumption was that it belonged to Viktor Nikiforov and Katsuki Yuuri, as explosively popular as they’d become that year, but upon a bit more mostly-disinterested study he’d realized it was for JJ Leroy, the one who’d placed first today. The one who would probably place first in the final, too, if he didn’t lose his momentum. 

Seung-gil had seen him in passing in years before; he’d watched a few of his programs on TV in the past as well, if only as a way to size up his competition a bit. But he generally tried to avoid watching everyone else—it did absolutely nothing to help him in the end, only serving to surrender a part of his focus to his nerves. He’d actually met the guy yesterday before the short programs, and he’d been sufficiently razzed here and there in what he figured was supposed to be a show of making competition, trying to psych him out or something. It hadn’t worked—his own anxiety had done a fantastic job of that in JJ’s stead. 

In his mood that night, though, Seung-gil couldn’t help but hate him a little. And so he made his way past the group of tables taking up at least a third of the large, modern, sophisticated room, settling instead for a place at the bar. 

He had no crew to accompany him, no fans waiting to come drink with him or console him or whatever it was they wanted to do. His coach was back at the hotel, making calls to his publicist and his family to lessen some of the blow before he actually arrived back in Seoul. He was by himself in this loud, dark bar, so he slipped into one of two empty stools left. 

“Hey, loner boy!” someone called over the din of other conversations and music. He paid them no mind, instead giving the overworked but polite bartender his order. 

“Hey! Loser!” they shouted again, clearly with amusement. A few of the people sitting near Seung-gil got quiet, and enough of them looked his way that he finally noticed the words were directed at him.

He turned hesitantly, brow slightly knit in confusion, to find JJ sitting at that table, arm around a strikingly beautiful woman with ink-black hair. A beer was in his other hand, resting on his knee where one leg crossed casually over the other. 

 _How it must feel to rest easy knowing you’ve made it,_ Seung-gil remembered thinking at that moment. _How wonderful it must be not to be a disappointment to others or yourself._  

“Quit looking so down, yeah? Come over here to the winner’s table!” JJ grinned, revealing perfectly white, straight teeth. He wanted to punch them. “I’ll buy you a drink or two.” 

In lieu of answering, he simply turned back to the bar, muttering a thank-you to the bartender before sipping his drink. He tried not to grimace at how cold it was in his throat—the walk here had already been freezing. He hadn’t been warm since he’d left his house earlier in the week.

A few of the girls who’d stopped to note their exchange were giggling now, either close enough or with enough volume for him to hear over the music. He already regretted coming here. This was one of the biggest reasons he didn’t want to interact with other skaters—it was all so _unnecessary,_ especially when it came to those whose egos ruled everything around them.

He continued nursing his drink—some mediocre concoction of his usual choice, and a far cry from good soju with lemon cider—and trying to lose himself in the noise. It was hard to at first, but then he put his phone in his pocket and sat back in his chair, absorbing every shapeless word of conversation and thump of the playlist’s lax, repetitive beats. Another drink also helped him loosen up a tad. All the while, though, he felt weird, as if someone were watching him—maybe a bystander of the strange one-sided talk a short while before, or— 

“Last chaaance, loner boy!” 

It was JJ again. He chose not to acknowledge him. 

“We’re about to do shots, and then I _really_ won’t be able to control what I say.” A haughty laugh followed the statement. “Why don’t you come make nice with me before I find some choice words for your _horrendous_ excuse for a free program?” 

Seung-gil felt sick, and he didn’t think it was from having a slightly-empty stomach before coming here. _I’m not going to kiss your ass,_ he should have said. _Especially not since you asked me to, you narcissistic shit._  

“Leave him be, JJ,” someone he presumed to be the female companion whined in a nasally voice. “Maybe he doesn’t understand English or something.” 

At that, Seung-gil couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder, aiming for expressionlessness but knowing he landed somewhere between anger and disgust. JJ threw his head back, laughing deeply at that. 

“I’m gonna guess he does! Ha!” His eyes crinkled as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead like he’d been sweating. “Oh, that _face._ Too good.” 

Seung-gil stopped facing them once the girl’s gaze turned just as menacing and pompous as her counterpart’s. He downed the remainder of his drink in two sips, then decided he would try and hail the bartender. It was time to leave already. 

It was a good ten minutes before he could pay his tab—and just when he was about to, his phone rang. It was his father. 

He excused himself for a moment, giving her his card before scurrying to the bathroom. It was much closer than heading toward the exit. 

The restroom was dimly lit and tiled in dark granite on the walls and floor, some kind of ambiance thing the rest of the place had going, but it was light enough to see that he was not alone—another man stood at the far end of the room, moving toward the sink. 

“Dad.” He answered the call in Korean, glad this likely Russian stranger wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop much. “Isn’t it late?”

 _“Ah, there’s my son.”_ A sigh came through the phone, though it was a fond one he could almost physically sense. _“You did well today.”_  

“Thank you.” A lump made itself known in his throat. “What—why are you up so late?”

The line crackled gently. _“I just got home from work, but I thought I’d call to see how you are.”_  

Seung-gil tapped his foot against the floor a few times, pivoting it as he did so. He could almost see the old pickling jar on the table in his father’s dingy kitchen, all the old cigarette butts in there about to be joined by the one he was currently smoking. He could picture him sitting there, the slight hunch of his shoulders and the dried streaks of batter all over his thick work shoes and the hem of his pants. He wished he could see the warm smile accompanying the words. 

“I’m…I’m glad you called.” 

 _“Me too.”_  

Suddenly he was aware of how quiet it was in here, how the door swiveled soundlessly when the man left after barely washing his hands. Seung-gil had cried earlier, only because he couldn’t help it, and it’d stopped as soon as it started. Now he could sense the tears building up again, welling thick in his throat and trying to work their way into his eyes. His fingers flexed against his cellphone. More than anything else today, this was what he’d needed to hear. 

“I tried, Dad.” His voice faltered a bit, echoing slightly against the smooth surfaces of the room. “I really did. I worked so hard to get here.” 

_“I know.”_

“I’ll—I’ll work harder. I will.” He wiped at his cheek with the end of a sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

 _“You never have to apologize. Not to me. I’m very proud of you.”_ There was a pause, and then: _“I know how upset you must be, but don’t be discouraged. There is always, always a next time.”_

He thought about his mother, and his coach, and his stepfather, and the people he worked with for endorsements, and his fans, and everyone who’d been rooting against him. He thought about JJ sitting there in the other room, his shitty attitude, making sure he knew just how badly he’d failed today. And then he felt grateful—so, so grateful for his father, the only one who ever spoke to him with kindness and tenderness. He wiped at his face again, attempting to reign himself in, and kept pushing on. 

They said their goodbyes and goodnights after a few more moments, and then Seung-gil moved to the mirror, deciding to check his face before walking back out there. 

His hair was still a bit fluffy from his shower—more to the touch than in appearance, which was good, but still. And his face was as plain and bored as always, which was definitely good. It was a touch pink, too, but he didn’t look like he’d been crying. Right then that was all he really cared about. 

He made to leave, only to find the door swinging open the moment he did. And in walked none other than JJ, who stopped short. The door closed with a soft tick. 

He watched in the mirror as a grin crept over JJ’s mouth, sly and somewhat predatory. And after a palpable pause, he sauntered over to the sinks. 

“I thought you might be in here,” he said, voice mostly breath, yet somehow as full as ever. He was wearing a white long-sleeved shirt and some jeans, both of which were extremely fitted, but the light color of both served to highlight the flush in his tan skin, how it reddened at his neck and cheeks from heat and alcohol.

“Um…excuse me,” Seung-gil answered dryly, stepping toward the exit and to the side. JJ shot an arm out to block, coming a bit closer. 

“Nuh-uh-uh,” he chided. His hand bunched into the front of Seung-gil’s shirt; his breath was hot and tangy from beer, wafting over Seung-gil’s face in a wave that seeped into his skin. “We need to have a little chat first.” 

Before he knew it, he was being shoved into one of the stalls, back against the wall. JJ locked the door behind them, coming to stand with one foot on either side of his own, peering down into his face with a suspiciously raised brow. 

Was JJ…appraising him? Sizing him up? Seung-gil could feel his heart pounding in his neck. It could’ve been the alcohol talking, but suddenly he was fearful—was he going to get beaten up or something? _Here?_ In the bathroom of some shady, overpriced bar? 

JJ was muscular, all broad shoulders and large hands and strong, lean legs, and he was much taller from this close than he’d seemed during the competition hours. And he was clearly inebriated on some level, enough that it slanted his smirk a bit crooked, made his eyes a little bit shiny. And he’d done nothing but be a complete asshole for the last hour.

 _Oh God,_ Seung-gil thought, hardly able to even swallow around the lump in his throat, still there from his body’s attempt at crying. _I’m going to have to go home with two black eyes and a broken nose on top of everything else._  

Without thinking, he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for impact. Which was why it surprised him when he felt a mouth on his own. 

His eyes shot back open. JJ was…JJ was _kissing_ him. Pretty hard. With closed eyes, too. One hand was on his hip, keeping it off the wall, while the other pressed into the base of his throat, pinning him back, fingers loosely encircling his neck. 

“Mmph—” he tried, squirming around as best he could. His hands came up to push or hit or whatever he was supposed to do in a situation like this. 

“Shh,” JJ said against his lips, the heels of his palms pressing in firmer. His thumb traced Seung-gil’s collarbone through his shirt, the fabric there rustling softly beneath his touch. “Relax.” He tilted his head, angling it just so. “I just wanna talk.” 

This didn’t feel like _talking—_ not when Seung-gil was getting made out on by a practical stranger, and not when his breath had gone thin and wan, limbs weak the moment he opened his mouth enough to kiss back. But it felt good. He hadn’t been kissed in a while, and never with this kind of intention, and he’d had such an awful, awful week, and it felt _good_ —so he closed his eyes, let his hands still at his sides, trying to find purchase on the cold surface of the wall. His relative inexperience seemed to go unnoticed, which was kind of a blessing. Something told him JJ wouldn’t be the type to let any weakness slide without poking at it hard enough for everyone to see. 

It was a dizzying while before their tongues met. JJ made a noise when it happened. Like he’d been waiting for it. _Craving_ it. Seung-gil’s toes curled in his boots. He could taste the beer now, and salt, and everything was wet and warm and strange in a way that had him wanting to press closer, to breathe in harder, to dissolve between the hands keeping him where he was. 

It was surreal, really. The whole thing was. He had no idea how much more time passed before JJ pressed their hips together hard enough to draw the breath from him, before JJ grinned triumphantly at that and moved to bite and lave at his neck. He probably should have hated the way that tongue felt against his skin, should’ve hated how odd and obscene it was, but he didn’t. Not at all. And somehow that was worse. 

“I thought—” The words tumbled off his own tongue, like his panting breaths had pushed them off a diving board. JJ immediately took notice. 

“Hnn?” came the acknowledgement from his open mouth, Seung-gil’s skin bitten between his teeth. 

“…Never mind.”

He put his hand up Seung-gil’s shirt, tracing the skin there with his fingernails. His touch was fever-hot, smooth, burning a path slowly upward, fanning flames in the spaces between his ribs. 

“Go ahead and say it,” he pretty much goaded, sucking at Seung-gil’s pulse point hard enough to start a bruise. The noise it made alone was unsettlingly erotic. 

“I—” Seung-gil closed his eyes tight so they wouldn’t roll back in his head. “I thought you liked women.” Someone was going to see that mark, whether tonight or in the morning or when he got home. He felt the smile stretch against it. 

“I do.” 

“Then why are you…” He couldn’t help the hitch in his breath when JJ’s hand trailed back toward his pants, scratching his stomach the whole way down, and he gulped around a drying throat. “What about your girlfriend?” 

“She’ll survive,” JJ sang through an exhale, then slid away, back bent just enough to peer up at him. He shouldn’t have looked—the expression on JJ’s face was intense, to say the least, from his darkened eyes to the way his teeth sparked bright behind a smirk. It was charged. Wicked. Kind of terrifying. 

 _He’s going to unravel me._  

“I had my eyes on you since your short program, you know.” He was crouching now, fire dancing beneath his touch the lower it dipped. “That stupid fucking outfit made you look _ridiculously_ hot, and then they said your program was all about _greed_ and _sex appeal_ and all this other shit that just didn’t seem to fit you.” He leaned forward, downward to kiss just beneath Seung-gil’s navel, making the muscles there jump erratically. “I have to admit—I got kind of curious.” 

It was all Seung-gil could do to watch, blushed all over and sweating and petrified and increasingly growing hard as he was. He’d barely given this guy a second thought before this week—and he’d never come _close_ to imagining something like this, not with him or anyone else—and now here JJ was, the arrogant bastard, the champion, the greediest of them all, sinking to his knees for a person like him in the stall of some bathroom with hands sure, practiced. Confidence unshakable. There was no way this was just some random coincidence of fate or attraction. Something had to be off. Untrue. It was too sudden, too separate from any remotely believable reality. 

JJ brought his fingers down to smooth over Seung-gil’s closed zipper, his thighs, the few tight inches outlining where he needed them the most. He was trying and failing not to shake, leg muscles quivering too much to control. 

“Your skating was decent, sure.” Another kiss, this time with an open mouth, and an inch below the last. Every word brought his lips and teeth against the skin, set there with intent. “But you just looked so _bored_ , and I thought to myself: _Now there’s_ _a guy I would fuck into next year._ And _God,_ I want to so bad, want to fuck you until that dead fucking look of yours wipes right off your face.” 

Seung-gil didn’t have any time to consider this before JJ’s tongue made contact with him through his pants, hot and damp and entirely too lewd. _Jesus fucking Christ._ If he hadn’t been exceptionally tense this entire time, that stare fixated on him every second, he would have come from that alone. His breath was shallow; his head hit the wall with a hollow thud. It was too much. Too much. _Way_ too much. 

“Mmm, yeah,” he heard JJ murmur on the edge of a groan. “Like that.”

 _This is just some sick game,_ he told himself. _It has to be. And if it isn’t, you’ll get found out anyway—someone will walk in here and hear you, or someone will see the marks on your skin, or one of his friends will spread the word, and then you’ll be done for._  

“Stop,” he whispered in a plead, his hand grabbing JJ by the hair. He absently noted how much coarser it felt than it appeared. “I can’t.” 

“Can’t what?” came the taunt. “Too uptight to have a little fun, are you?” 

Fun. _Fun._ If he’d been anywhere close to his right mind, he might have laughed at that. 

 _A game. It’s just a game. And you’re already losing._  

JJ’s tongue and breath were hot against him, bordering on scorching, fingers moving to undo the button of his pants. His breath congealed in his lungs; his head swam. What was JJ even doing here, to him? Who _said_ things like this? Who cheated on their girlfriend, especially for some random, heated, bullshit tryst? Who cornered and humiliated and aroused the living hell out of someone they barely knew just for _fun_? 

The wet spot at the front of his pants was invisible on the black fabric, but it was there, only getting worse the more JJ teased at it, ran his teeth carefully, methodically over it. The pressure felt unspeakably good—so much so that his neck strained from having to keep himself in place. Any minute now and his legs would give out under him, and he would let this hot coil sitting deep between his hips snap, rush through him and from him with abandon, and then JJ would have him exactly where he wanted him. 

He couldn’t do it. He’d failed at so much today, but he was still better than whatever was happening here. And the risk was too great to take—especially on someone like _this._  

His hand twisted in the dark charcoal of JJ’s hair, down to the scalp, then slid down to mash against his forehead, pushing with what strength he could gather. There was resistance at first, a grin and a swipe of the tongue just to tease him, but he persevered and pushed back harder, stumbling away like he was far drunker than two drinks would make him. 

JJ was breathing hard, too, broad chest rising and falling beneath the solid stretch of his shirt. He was leaning back onto his calves, a satisfied smile on his flushed face like he’d already made Seung-gil come several times over and had done the same himself. Like he’d already gotten exactly what he’d barged in here for, totally satiated, getting off on undoing Seung-gil piece by piece before they’d even begun. 

“I guess I’m too much for you after all.”

And the words were said with such a sweeping and grandiose lilt that Seung-gil found himself hating JJ just for that—for being able to play with him, to bring him down another peg when there were hardly any left to clear before he hit the bottom for good. 

 _Fuck you,_ he should have said. _Fuck you, you asshole, and every bit of power you think you have._ But the need to leave was so huge then that speech was failing him, evading him entirely, and he turned to go before JJ’s eyes burned a permanent mark on his skin. 

He left it all in a vague, throbbing daze. His pulse pumped too loudly in his ears to hear anything else. And he barely remembered to sign his bill on the way out, swiping a single line of ink for his signature and grabbing his card and coat. He didn’t care how he must’ve looked—disheveled, face lit with color, painfully hard and doing his best to hide it. He just needed to get out of there. 

And he did, finally—not stopping walking until he made it until his hotel room, and not able to slow his heart rate until he was on the plane back home. 

The worst part of it all, he realized some time after the fact, wasn’t even that it happened. It was over and done, and for what it was, it could have gone so many ways that he was thankful it didn’t. 

No: the worst part, really and truly, was that he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

 

.

 

“Higher!”

His teeth clicked when he landed his triple lutz. Not enough height; his blades hit the ice just a tad off-balance. He glided toward the other side of the rink now, gaining momentum as he went, damp hair floating away from his forehead. And just when his calves tightened to lift off— 

 _“Higher,_ Seung-gil!” 

His coach’s clap echoed over the surface of the rink when he barely made it off the ice once again. _Damn it._ This was only a matter of psyching himself out. He knew it was. 

“What is _wrong_ with you this week?” she griped, arms crossed firmly across her chest. “You only want to do the complicated moves, but not the basics. Huh? Is that it?” 

“No, it’s not.” His voice was quiet but he knew she heard him by the way her brow unwound imperceptibly. “I’ll get it this time.” 

“Well, you’d better. You only have time for one more before we have to clear the room.”

He sucked at the inside of his cheek to hold his tongue. No doubt the rink would be going to JJ, _again._ Did he even need it? He’d already won pretty much all there was to win; he had money and fame and talent and drive and confidence and support and everything he needed to succeed anyway. He was probably just renting out the building to show off—or, even more likely, just so no one else could use it. 

Seung-gil inhaled deeply, let it go, and then leaned toward one side to pull himself into skating a wide arc across the ice. The irritation coursed through him in a red channel, seeping down to his hands and feet, and he used it to bring himself higher, faster into the move for a tight second—one, two, three rotations, and a perfect landing. 

“There you go,” Coach said decisively as she watched him skate her way. “That’s more like it.” 

 _If only bitterness were an acceptable theme,_ he thought with a humorless huff.

He went to the locker room once they were finished this time; Coach went to wait for him in the car and, at his request, dodge any possible reporters. She’d insisted he change into a different shirt this time, at least, since she wondered whether his failings in practice were due to an oncoming cold. He took her advice without protest—getting sick at a time like this was practically fatal. 

He took off his high-necked workout shirt, folding the sweat-cool fabric as best he could before pulling a soft long-sleeved tee from his bag. The locker room was only a bit less freezing than the actual ice skating rink. His skin felt like it wasn’t a part of his body. Not for the first time, he wondered what had drawn him to such a profession, one without any kind of warmth—and not just on a physical level. 

He was just pulling the shirt over his head when he heard a whistle from somewhere behind him. His jaw locked; his eyes fell shut. 

“Looks like I just missed the show. How unfortunate.” 

God, how he despised that smoothness, that patronizing swing to JJ’s words. He didn’t dare turn around—or, he thought with a twist in his gut, maybe he should. It’d be easier to prevent something if he could see it coming first. 

“Do you have nothing better to do?” he muttered, smoothing his hair away from his face and willing himself calmer. He could handle this today: no touches, no secret anything. 

“Ah, he speaks!” His voice was closer now, enough so that Seung-gil’s shoulder blades twitched closer together. “I don’t know, though. You tell me.” 

“I’ll tell you this: I’m leaving.” He hiked his bag over the opposite shoulder, not even bothering to zip it up. The strap dug into his neck as he turned to the door. 

“Now wait just a minute.” JJ stood in his way, holding him at the waist to keep him from going any further. His stomach muscles clenched beneath the grip. “Is that any way to treat your old pal?” 

Seung-gil gave him the blankest look he could muster, staring into the startlingly vivid gray-blue of his narrowing eyes. _Old pal_. As if he’d never tried to suck Seung-gil off through his pants or grope him in an elevator or bother the hell out of him. The awful thought yet again occurred to him that JJ may not even remember the incident in its entirety. That alcohol may have watered it down into something more innocent in retrospect. But he saw the way his eyes creased so slightly at the corners, how a tiny dimple made itself known beside the curve of his lips, how his gaze was completely unwavering, and there was simply no way that was the case. Maybe it was the opposite problem—maybe this was all payback for leaving JJ on his knees in the middle of a bathroom stall. 

“Come on, Seung-gil!” he crooned teasingly. He was so much nearer that the words hummed in his chest, close enough to feel. “It’s just the two of us! You can talk to me.” 

His hands slid around to cross over each other. Seung-gil’s back arched inward underneath them which only assisted them in falling a few centimeters downward, in closing the distance between him and JJ. He shrunk away not a second after realizing. Unfortunately, though, JJ kept his hands where they were, refusing to give, grinning all the while. 

Here was the thing: it wasn’t just the two of them. JJ was still dressed for coming here, leather jacket cold to the touch and jeans and sunglasses on his head, which meant he’d only just arrived. People would be in here any minute to see to him, and if not they were at least waiting for him outside and would come to check if he took too long getting ready. And they couldn’t just _talk—_ clearly that had never been an intention of his, and if it had been he’d done a terrible job of making conversation thus far.

“Fine,” Seung-gil returned finally, teeth grinding at the edge of his jaw. _How wonderful it must be to live with such a false, ignorant sense of privacy._ “Let me ask you something, then.” 

JJ’s brow quirked. Intrigued. “Go on.” 

He breathed in through his nose, preparing himself. And then: “Why do you do this?” 

The brow arched even higher, though the opposing corner of his mouth pulled down just enough to notice. Seung-gil wasn’t sure he’d ever seen JJ do anything but smirk to the fullest, and the sight caught him off guard for a second or two. 

“Do what?” His voice, of course, was unaffected. 

“Do”—Seung-gil’s palms landed on JJ’s forearms, clasping onto them with his fingers—“ _this._ Do you realize that all you ever are is…is inappropriate with me? And _rude?”_  

“Oh, so that’s why you’re always so frigid?” There was a lowness to his tone all of a sudden beneath its sparkling cadence, under that haughty laugh. His eyes narrowed a bit further. “Because I hurt your feelings or something?” 

The leather of his sleeves was chilly beneath Seung-gil’s hands. And he sensed something different now, like he’d grazed a nerve. If the way JJ’s eyes had shaded was worth anything, it was a warning. 

“Maybe I don’t know how else to get your attention. Ever think about that?” He moved to grab Seung-gil’s arms the same way and yanked him a little closer. “Did that ever occur to you in all the times you ignored me?” 

They were close enough to kiss now. Seung-gil’s heart thrummed high, pulse jumping at the base of his neck. _Would he try?_ He genuinely couldn’t tell. Something occurred to him right then, however—something bad—and it made his hands tighten. The muscles in JJ’s arms were strong and unyielding. 

“Are you… _blaming_ me for your disgusting personality? How is that my fault?” When JJ didn’t immediately respond, he pressed on, angry now. “And how dare I ignore _you,_ right? Do you think you can get everything you want when you want it? Because you’re”—he searched for the right word somewhere along the tip of his tongue—“selfish?” _Yes, but that’s not quite it._ “Spoiled?” _There we go._  

If he hadn’t been so close then, he likely wouldn’t have seen it. He may not have noticed the way some kind of realization hit JJ between the brows, spreading into his eyes like ink in water, fast, diluting with each of those few passing seconds. He may not have seen that little moment of shock before it melted into that usual pompousness, that fluid streak of arrogance he’d somehow come to rely on. 

JJ laughed—it was a large, barking sort of thing, one that rang discordant throughout the locker room. For the first time ever, it felt like they were alone. Wholly and completely. Like they were the only two people for miles and miles. Seung-gil’s stomach dropped at the sound.  

“So you think you have it all figured out, do you.” Another laugh now, not as loud but just as unsettling. He detached completely from their half-violent embrace and started to walk, the change of pace so quick that Seung-gil didn’t even see his face, only felt the rough check of his shoulder as he moved past and took the warmth with him. “Well then, I’ll go ahead and leave you alone, since that’s clearly what you want.” 

There they were: the words Seung-gil had wanted to hear since this time last year in some other semi-safe space—or even before that, in the halls of the same arena they were headed to once more the following day. The words he’d been begging for since he’d arrived here again and witnessed JJ’s presence in all its aggressive forwardness. 

He left the locker room without so much as a glance back—he didn’t want to know what he would find if he dared to look. And then he headed right for the car stalled outside the building, trying not to dwell on the way his stomach turned. He’d done what he’d set out to do: he’d stood up for himself, first of all, and he’d done what he had been waiting for a year to accomplish. He’d gotten rid of one of his biggest problems.

He pulled his coat on at the door to face the infamous Russian wind chill, not wanting to think about why he felt the very opposite of relieved.

 

.

 

And so it went. The rest of the day was extremely uneventful. There were no interrupted exercises due to wandering thoughts or giggly women distracting him from said workouts. There were no chance encounters in the hotel restaurant or bar, no snide comments over sub-par European food, no touching or warm breaths or surprise earbud removals. No untoward sexual advances in front of other skaters or innocent bystanders. No looks when they passed each other in the lobby. No texts or social updates. For twelve hours, Seung-gil was at peace, enjoying the undisrupted quiet of his life. 

Except he wasn’t.

The conversation stayed with him. It incubated in his mind like a virus and threatened to infect him in a similar way, morphing every thought into a new anxiety and churning his stomach. If he couldn’t eat well before, he certainly wasn’t faring well now. 

His coach noticed that something, yet again, was wrong with him; she prescribed resting in bed for the afternoon and evening following his workout. It wasn’t a suggestion—it never was—but he followed her command without complaint or prolonged silence, slipping beneath the blissfully heavy covers on his bed and seeking their warmth as he lay in the unlit room. 

He could see the rapidly-fading light of dusk peeking through the edges of the curtains. The competition began tomorrow, and yet he felt already inundated in that same feeling he always got, the adrenaline going rotten in his bones. When a couple of hours had passed, he wasn’t surprised to find that he still was far from better.

Seung-gil finally reached for his phone. He’d been avoiding looking at it, but now he hoped that pictures of his dog would help ease some of the tension in his limbs, in his chest. He scrolled through his camera roll, finding pictures he’d taken at his house and in their backyard; he found some of food he’d eaten in the last few months, but the sight made him a little bit nauseated. 

He went for his Instagram next, knowing he had the best pictures of his dog there. And of course, as the laws of the universe went, he saw a picture of JJ the moment he opened the app. 

It was so blatantly unexpected, enough that he almost lost his handle on the phone itself. But there the picture was. It wasn’t a selfie—JJ was standing at a bridge somewhere along the harbor, gazing pensively out at the water. It was clearly a pose meant to accentuate the length of his legs in his expensive jeans, his height as he stood in the light of the setting sun. It was funny, really—it hadn’t really even been sunny today, at least not that Seung-gil noticed. 

 _Alone today,_ the caption said plainly. _Reflecting. Wondering what led me here._  

If he hadn’t felt so wretched, he would've rolled his eyes. He wondered who’d even taken the picture, how ridiculous a request it must’ve sounded when JJ asked. Knowing him, though, it probably wasn’t ridiculous in the least. 

Seung-gil scrolled past where some fans had commented— _JJ! lol!! you’re not alone if someone took the picture!!_ or _you’re never alone when you have us, JJ! <3—_and saw pictures other people had posted. Per Coach’s orders, he followed most of his fellow skaters to avoid looking like a total dick. It was fine since he didn’t really use the app much. When he did, though, he saw things like this and remembered exactly why he avoided social media. 

He realized after a moment that he wasn’t actually registering any of the other pictures on his feed, so he went to his own page instead. And waiting for him were pictures of his dog—walking, sitting, sleeping, occasionally posing—along with either a brief, dry caption or no caption at all. He just couldn’t be bothered. There were the pictures he was required to post from ad campaigns he was featured in, too, of him wearing certain brands of athletic gear or pictures his mother asked him to post of himself on the ice. There was the odd scenic picture as well, most either of his favorite parks or from the path lining the river where he and his dog went together. 

JJ, of course, had liked every picture. 

Seung-gil sighed, thumb hovering over that username beneath every post. He knew what he’d find there: selfies, selfies with gorgeous women, selfies with fans and business affiliates and his parents and people he’d likely bribed into being his friends. And then there would be pictures of him other people had taken, ones like the _reflecting_ picture from today, with captions that bordered on inducing secondhand embarrassment. 

He decided not to look after all. But there was one other place he clicked on simply out of morbid curiosity: his direct messages.

He’d deleted most of the ones from fans or acquaintances, but a few remained: a chat with Katsuki Yuuri that contained dog pictures only, one with Sara Crispino with life updates he was only mildly interested in, one with Phichit Chulanont he’d kind of happened to get into, and one with JJ. 

It was the most frequently updated of all the conversations, but it was also the only one that was entirely one-sided. It was just JJ shouting into the void, really; it wasn’t a secret that Seung-gil looked at what he sent and never said anything back. And yet he continued to send and send and send ever since the year before. 

Seung-gil scrolled to the top and waited for each picture to load. The first text was from over a month after last year’s Rostelecom Cup. 

It was a link to JJ’s own post—a picture of Incheon Airport. 

 _Guess who’s in Korea!  
__Want to meet up? It’d be nice to have a tour guide ;)_  

He distinctly remembered how angry he’d been to receive that message. How much it had severely pissed him off that JJ was rubbing his Olympic training in his face. He’d turned his phone off for two days, much to his mother’s bewilderment, after not dignifying it with a response. 

The next few were pictures of food JJ had eaten while there—lots of Korean barbecue and fish and soups; never any of the sweets Westerners loved when they visited. It was probably because of his diet, or perhaps it was a matter of preference. At the time Seung-gil hadn’t given a shit.

Next was a round of pictures from nights out in Seoul. _Sure you don’t want to come out?_ And then, after a selfie of him with a bunch of women, one of which was his fiancé: _We won’t bite. Haha!!_  

Again, Seung-gil hadn’t even deigned to regard it. Somehow every photo JJ took with his girlfriend— _fiancé_ —particularly their announcement post—had felt like a punishment. 

There were then the posts JJ had sent for several months after the season ended: 

A video someone had posted of a huge dog with a puppy bark. _I bet this is what your dog sounds like. lol. sooooooo cute!!!!!_  

A picture of some singer decked out in a furry rainbow jacket. _Looks like your SP outfit. LMAO_  

A video of a sunset set to an acoustic song. _Don’t know why, just thought you’d like this. :P_  

Parks and cups of coffee, or both in one. _Reminds me of the pix you post. Lol._  

More dogs, which had coincided with days he’d posted a photo of his own, as if JJ had been hoping to catch him while he was online. 

There was a picture some fan account had posted of him _._ It was from an editorial he’d done the year he finally got a little domestic fame; they’d made his brows thicker, his hair fluffier, lips glossed to keep up with current aesthetic trends. He hadn’t thought much of it until he’d gotten the message: _Hot damn. Not bad. ;)_ His face heated even now; he burrowed himself further into the sheets. 

And after all of this were the messages from summer and early autumn. They were pictures JJ had taken of himself this time; even though they looked like most of his other posts, he hadn’t actually publicly put them up, and therefore they seemed more private. More…intimate, even. JJ laying shirtless in bed, trying for a lazy and natural pose. JJ reflected in his bathroom mirror after a workout, sweat making his shirt stick to him. _Like what you see?_ Pictures of food—only one of which was a dessert, sent with a caption. _Tastes like you._  

Seung-gil curled up, bringing his knees closer to his chest. He’d conveniently forgotten all of this within the last two days. Why hadn’t JJ ever taken a fucking _hint?_  

There was a video he had sent of him singing something—obviously a little plastered at the time it was taken, but he wasn’t quite as terrible as he sounded in the original song for his short program. Especially since it seemed to be in the comfort of his own room instead of out in public. It was most likely from the night he and his fiancé had split up; the news had been everywhere in the skating world within the next few days. Seung-gil still couldn’t watch the whole thing. 

Then there were more memes, more pictures that somehow reminded JJ of him even though they hardly knew each other. And lastly, a week ago: 

 _See you soon >:)_ 

He put his phone face-down on the bed. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, much darker now that it had gotten to be the actual evening and not just the early sunset. 

 _Did that ever occur to you in all the times you ignored me?_ The words played on a loop in his head. He had ignored JJ, so, so many times, and that still didn’t seem to be enough to drive him away. Had he ever really wanted that, though? Initially, yes, since his emotions were guiding him through a period of deep bitterness and depression after not moving on to the Grand Prix and stumbling a bit at the Four Continents. He hadn’t wanted to be a failure, and he associated JJ with every possible kind of failure after everything he’d experienced to that point. He didn’t want JJ to win, either. Not even on a personal, secret level.

But the texts weren’t exactly congruent to the JJ that Seung-gil had seen and felt in person. These were pieces of himself he’d shamelessly offered, using the only avenue he knew to do so—they didn’t have each other’s phone numbers and weren’t friends on any other platform. He’d kept giving each one, knowing they’d been acknowledged and ignored and choosing to continue in spite of that. And they were _nice_ things—thoughtful things, too, save for some of the selfies. Things he had taken the time to note and send and even explain why he did. He’d been thinking of Seung-gil as often as Seung-gil had been thinking of him. 

As horrible and twisted as it may be, Seung-gil wondered if that slip in JJ’s expression today was something like… _hurt._ He had rejected JJ once and for all, on an emotional level over a physical one this time, and it had worked. Had all those stupid fucking taunts been a shield? Something to intimidate him after all the times JJ had been vulnerable enough to try and relate to him, to be kind? Or…or they could have been his instinctual reaction, because he _was_ a brat, and he _did_ think he could get everything he wanted, and he didn’t know how else to act. 

 _Maybe I don’t know how else to get your attention,_ he’d said—and there in the soft quiet of his hotel bedroom, it didn’t feel like it was too far from the truth. 

Either way, it only made Seung-gil feel worse—because not only had he built a singular image of JJ in his mind, actively refusing to acknowledge the other side of him, but he’d also been cold and hurtful right off the bat without even _attempting_ to be understanding. And despite this, despite how both of them had been behaving since they got here, JJ still seemed to like him. And that just made everything worse. 

He put the covers over his head and focused on his breathing—in, out, in, out—and eventually fell asleep with an uneasiness creeping into even inch of his body.

 

.

 

Dinner was a late and frivolous affair. The knots his stomach was tied in made it impossible to eat. 

He was expecting his coach to make a comment about how little he’d managed to ingest, but she’d been silent throughout. The sounds of their utensils clinking against plates, their glasses being set on the table were only amplified by how everyone else in the restaurant seemed to be talking to make up for them. 

His coach was a flinty, driven woman. She had been his coach from the start, back when his stepfather agreed to bend to Seung-gil’s mother’s wishes and hire her. It had been a pricey endeavor that was only now starting to pay off. Not once had the woman been warm or forgiving or encouraging, really, and she’d never exactly tried to deepen the way the two of them related to each other—she had her moments of backing down when she could see he was extremely tired, yes, but her goal above all else was to see him win. Generally he could ignore her as much as he liked, but he couldn’t fault her for the way she was. Not even if she constantly reminded him of his own mother. 

He normally wouldn’t think much of them having a silent dinner. They usually did, in fact. But she seemed to be waiting—like she had information to drop in his lap, or criticism she wasn’t sure how to time since it was the night before the competition. Just as he was beginning to think he should prepare himself for whatever was brewing, though, she set down her wine glass. He watched the liquid within roll around its container and leave traces of purple-red as it passed over the swell of the bowl. 

“You have a lot riding on you this year,” she began without preamble, her dark eyes set on him. The shadows cast by the closest lamp made her features look a bit exaggerated, more serious. 

He stayed quiet. It was his way of signaling for her to go on.

“Your sponsorships and endorsements are much greater this year.” Her finger bent against the handle of her fork. “And you have the media on your side now—they know you, and they like you. I’d hate to see that go to waste.” 

Seung-gil resisted the very strong urge to look away, to close his eyes. _Oh no._  

“What is this about?” he asked, praying it was something to do with his failed jumps in practice, or even his routine as a whole. But he knew that expression—that specific kind of distaste—from a similar time just a few years ago. His palms began to sweat under her scrutiny. 

“I think you already know, Seung-gil.” 

He didn’t dare say a word, didn’t dare change his expression until she sighed with a note of mild frustration. As if this were some minor inconvenience. As if _he_ were some simple problem to brush aside. 

“The last time you were involved with another male figure skater, you risked having more than half your endorsements dropped until you made a public statement.” Her eyes were hard, mouth set in a solid line. “If I were you, I would stay away from this Jean-Jacques Leroy—unless you’re telling me there’s nothing here to worry about.” 

All he could think was _how does she know? How did she find out? I was so careful._ He willed the lump not to rise in his throat, but to no avail. _This is exactly what I was trying to avoid._  

It could be that she was overreacting—that she’d somehow seen JJ walk into the locker room today, or had overheard part of their conversation, or perhaps she’d seen them talking at breakfast the day before. It could be that she was only trying to prevent another _involvement_ , keen as her eye was to his shortcomings. He decided to go with that assumption. But cautionary signs were still blaring in his head, and he bristled some, defensive. 

“Am I not allowed to speak to my competitors now?” His voice was steady, thankfully. “Aren’t you the one who insists on that? For me to play nice and make friends?” 

“Yes,” she cut in, right at the end of his last word. “But he’s the most famous out of all of them, and—well, he doesn’t seem like someone you would choose to be _friends_ with. Not to mention that he has his reputation outside of competition and petty charity work to speak for him.” Her arms crossed over her chest in a tight box. “You may think it’s fun while it lasts, but some risks are not worth taking. Especially not at such a critical time.” 

 _Some risks are not worth taking_ , he thought. _Like the mambo I chose for last year’s short, the one that got me as far as I did, only to fuck up the free program that you choreographed and lose. Like the only time I’ve ever fallen in love, had to live through the way the only good time of my life was pulverized into nothing but my own memory, because you and my mother cared more about money than my happiness. Like going against all of your wishes and having a relationship with my father before he died, still poor and still alone and without his only child to be there with him when it happened._  

Seung-gil could physically feel the pressure rising in his blood. The discontent pulsing through him in a hot, red, sickening flash. It might be a risk, and one not worth taking at that, but all he wanted was the chance to decide that for himself. 

“You’re right,” was all he said. It didn’t mean he agreed with her. She seemed appeased with his answer nonetheless, nodding and turning her attention back to her plate. 

By the time she’d picked her fork back up to take another bite, though, he’d already made his decision. He hadn’t had a chance with this to begin with—but he wasn’t about to start waiting for one.

 

.

 

It was late when they returned to their room, though not late enough for him to be tired. Coach retired to her part of the suite while he went to his, gently shutting the door behind him. He leaned on it while he slipped his phone from his pocket. 

Immediately he opened Instagram, tapping the icon which lead him to his unrequited conversation with JJ. A stabilizing breath was all he needed before he began to type. 

_Can you meet me in an hour?_

His text looked so strange there amongst all the others. But it was there. Now he just had to wait for the response—if there would even be one. He turned the screen off and let his hand fall to his side. 

Within seconds it buzzed. 

 _I thought you wanted me to leave you alone. What’s with the sudden change of heart?_  

Frustrating, but understandable. Seung-gil let the top of his phone rest against his mouth so he could think of a good way to respond. He couldn’t, though—he couldn’t think of a sufficient explanation. For a few seconds, he almost considered not sending anything back; had it not been for the fact that he hadn’t set a location, he might not have. 

 _Can you?_  

He thought his heart would beat right through his chest as he awaited the reply.

 _Yeah, I can. Where?_  

It was like every ounce of the relief he’d been lacking earlier came at him in full force. His skull touched the door; his whole body exhaled along with him. He typed in a meeting place—the only one he really knew around here outside of the rink, the arena, and that dreadful bar from last year. JJ agreed to it with a rare succinctness, but it was still an agreement. In an hour, they’d meet near the closest bridge. 

Through the door he heard Coach milling around the kitchen of their suite, getting water to drink and tinkering with her laptop. Every new thing she did felt like it took excruciatingly long—seconds and minutes were magnified under the sounds of her small chores. And then, finally, after nearly half an hour, he heard her door close with a finalizing click. 

He wasted no time in throwing on an extra sweater, then replacing his coat. He whirled his scarf around his neck and tiptoed out into the main room. It was dark now—too dark to see, almost, since the lights were off now. The sound of her turning on the shower made him tense, worried for a split second that he’d been caught, but it was more a blessing than anything. It was a perfect cover for the noise of him slipping on his boots and walking out. 

The journey to the actual meeting place passed by in a flash. It was remarkable, really, the way the mind could compress and bend and stretch time, the things it did when one had something to look forward to. He couldn’t say for sure what would come out of this—but whatever it was, it would be his, and that was all that really mattered to him.

 

.

 

Snow in Russia was colder than it was back home, not as puffy and pure as he preferred. And it melted faster, compacted and glimmering as it was beneath the lamp posts lining the road. His boots crunched into it at every corner he rounded. The spot where he’d planned to stand waiting for JJ was essentially a large puddle of slush, so he walked a little further down the path where he could better see the frozen surface of the river. He wondered how thick the ice was down there. Would he be able to skate on it if he tried? 

He wasn’t sure how long he waited, and he did his best not to check. There was a good probability this was part of some elaborate revenge JJ was plotting against him, cameras and exposure and everything he’d been trying to prevent, some immature bullshit he would do well to have no part in. But he’d gotten this far. He may as well give him the opportunity to prove him wrong. 

He stared at the rows of candle-orange lights lining the bridge before him. How the snow sparkled and spun off the wheels of passing cars. It was times like tonight when he wished he could call his father—he always knew exactly what to say, how to minimize even the smallest worries if only for a moment. How to punctuate a time like this with something sage and simple and compassionate. Seung-gil wondered how his dad would perceive this situation. Whether he would hear the sounds of wheels on wet concrete and the breath beginning to crystalize in the air all the way through the phone. If he would hear the unsure waver in Seung-gil’s voice and say: _no matter what you do, no matter who you are, I’ll be right here._  

He closed his eyes, feeling the cold buff against his skin, the fog from his mouth dissolving into it. It was late now—very late—but he’d had enough rest. He would be alright. 

Something unexpectedly entered his left pocket then, warm and too big to fit. The only thing which stopped him from pivoting around with a fist poised to attack was the voice at his ear. 

“Missing me already?” 

The hand in his pocket made to hold his own, but he shook it out. JJ apparently believed that was an invitation to hug him from behind instead, drawing him back into the heat of his chest. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he whispered, a note of victory embracing the words. Did he _have_ to make things harder? To make himself more difficult to like? 

“You take a lot of things as a yes,” Seung-gil sighed into the leather sleeve looped around his neck. That earned him a deep, hearty laugh, one that seemed to fly right over the ledge and echo along the river. 

“And here I thought you called me out to kiss and make up.” The mirth was evident in JJ’s voice, and normally that would have grated on every possible nerve. Now, though, all it did was make his chest twinge with a feeling akin to anticipation. He unwrapped himself from the hold—the _we’re in public_ went unspoken, or so he hoped. 

“Something like that.”

“Oh? Really, now.” The pleased chuckle came much more softly. “Good thing I brought my chapstick. Looks like you could use some.” 

Instinctually, he licked his lips, then turned to JJ. He expected the perfectly tailored outfit, the attractive leanness of his figure and the squared shoulders beneath his clothes. He knew he would find tan skin pink at the cheekbones from the bite of cold, the ever-emboldened upward curve of his mouth. The essence of who he was. What Seung-gil didn’t expect to find, however, was the excitement in his expression or the fondness at the edges of that signature smile. The twinge grew, daring to blossom. 

“I owe you an apology,” Seung-gil declared softly. “For what I said today. It was unkind…and—” 

“No, no, you were right.” JJ waved a flippant hand. “Forget it.”

“Really?” He’d expected at least a bit of groveling to set things straight. JJ grinned, flashing the white of his teeth. 

“Mhmm. What you should _really_ be apologizing for is ignoring my messages for a year.” 

He sensed a lighthearted note in the words, in the mischievous glimmer of his eyes, but still felt it necessary to comply. “That was also inconsiderate of me. I should have at least responded and asked you not to continue.” 

One step closed the inches between them, and JJ stood directly in front of him, gazing down with an almost cat-like smugness. Warmth radiated off him. 

“That’s what you wanted? For me to stop?” 

 _No,_ Seung-gil thought, meeting his bright blue eyes. That was just it—he’d never truly wanted him to. 

“If I say no,” he ventured carefully, “will you consider us officially made up?” 

JJ tilted his head to one side, narrowing his eyes as his smirk stretched wider. 

“Only if the kiss is still part of the deal.” 

Seung-gil hesitated, but only for a moment. He wouldn’t have come here if this weren’t what he was seeking. 

“Okay.” His hand instantly shot forward to keep JJ from continuing to lean toward him. “Not here, though.” 

A hand came up to runs its thumb across his chin, graze his drying lips. “Why not? Nobody’s around.” 

He inclined his head toward the multitude of passing cars; the disinterested, yes, but very present passersby. JJ chuckled once more, taking the hand on his chest in his own free one. The idiot wasn’t even wearing gloves. 

“Just one.” He entwined their fingers. “I think you owe me at least that, right? Pretty please?” 

A shiver trickled down Seung-gil’s spine, though he chalked it up to the cold touch on his wrist. He could have come back with something about JJ owing _him_ an apology or two, how he’d already said his piece and settled whatever they may have 'owed' to each other. But there was time for that later—a kiss wouldn’t hurt anything. 

“Okay,” he repeated. “But only because you asked nicely.” 

There wasn’t even a second of pause before half-warm hands were on his face, bringing him close until their mouths met. 

It was a slow, tender dance, lips dragging and pulling, breath mingling hot and thick. JJ was an exceptionally good kisser, so deliberately sensual with every moment of it that Seung-gil could have drowned in the sensation. He would eventually, and soon, but— 

“Not—not here,” he managed, rocking back on his heels. JJ’s hand was steady at the curve on his neck. 

“Come _on.”_ The urgency behind that small request made him weak in the knees. “Let go. For _once._ I want you so badly I can taste it.” 

 _Jesus._ If he hadn’t already decided, that would have done it for him. 

“Take me somewhere else, then.” His hand covered the one on his neck, holding it with sincerity. “When you do, I’ll let you finish what you started.” 

JJ leaned back with an somewhat frightful quickness, gave him a shocked blink, and proceeded to let out the biggest laugh of the night. It was a full, unbidden sound, rising out from his chest without a single care. Since he was otherwise occupied for a few short seconds, Seung-gil allowed himself a tiny, private smile, and a moment of hope. 

_This was it—this was the right thing to do._

 

.

 

When they finally got around to hailing a taxi and figuring out somewhere to go, he relaxed in his seat, closing his eyes as he faced the window. The city lights flickered behind his eyelids, golden and blinking and familiar. Almost like home. 

Two fingers made their way into the space inside his glove, tracing patterns into his palm as they came back up to temperature; both of their thumbs aligned on the outside, curving around each other with a slight but refreshing kind of uncertainty—something he never would have thought JJ capable of, but was finding himself happily surprised. It was a newness that resonated in Seung-gil’s core, dissipating all of the guilt and dread and whatever else had led him here.

None of this may be what he needed, in all honesty. And it certainly wasn’t his wisest decision. But that, he thought, might have been the best part of it all.

 

.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on twitter @utski2 if you want to hear me talk about my love/hate relationship with jj and my love/love relationship w seung-gil
> 
> comments are also very highly appreciated! thank you for reading!! :)


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